


The Sounds Of Silence (Oneshots)

by N1ghtshade



Series: The Sounds of Silence [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: American Sign Language, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, One Shot Collection, Sign Language, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 20:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13255983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/N1ghtshade/pseuds/N1ghtshade
Summary: A series of one shots about Clint and Henley's relationship. Life with a deaf archer and a one-eyed pizza loving mutt can be more exciting than you might expect.





	1. The Sound of Silence (mid-Shadow Directive)

**Author's Note:**

> Oneshots will be labled as to where they fall in the series and the larger canon timeline.

If only I had known what I was getting into. Funny, the things that can make you flash back to your childhood, make you wish you could travel in time and tell yourself what the future was going to be.

On second thought, if I told mini-me that I was going to be chasing a real-life superhero (or the closest approximation therof I'd ever met) around on top secret missions and that the whole reason I got the job was not for badass secret super spy skills but for sign language, I might get punched. And have people called to take me to what I used to mistakenly call "the nut bin." I was never good with those phrases.

None of that changes the fact that I'm currently perched on a stool in my kitchen, trying not to burn a batch of tomato soup and playing "The Sound of Silence" on repeat on my I-pod.

I first heard that song years ago, as a junior in college. It had been a rough week and it didn't help that my roommate had this thing for really depressing songs. She would play them constantly and sing along to the lyrics and it drove me nuts.

So when I got back to the room after basically failing a paper in a writing class that I was frustrated with taking anyhow, I was in no mood for her moodiness. And then she started signing that song and I practically threw my book across the room when the lyrics hit the part about "people talking without speaking".

I'd just taken up sign language the year before and this was the most beautiful description of ASL I had ever heard. Never mind that that probably totally wasn't the idea the writer had in mind. I memorized the song in English and then in ASL, and even performed it for a campus talent show.

I'm not sure I still know the signs in the right cadence, but I'm all alone and I don't care what I look like. I start in full on just as the song hits the climactic musical build and I'm lost in the music, and….

…and I forgot one little very important detail. Tomato-drenched spoon. ASL. Bad combination.

The kitchen kind of looks like someone was murdered violently. I probably look like the murderer, too, what with tomato smears I can feel all over my face and on my clothes.

There's not much I can do about it right now, since the pot I've been ignoring is about to boil over. I'm still standing at the stove, stirring intently, when there's the peculiar knock on the door that only Clint uses.

Forgetting the sauce everywhere, I rush to the door, slip halfway there and accidentally catch myself on the counter with my bad wrist, still in its splint. I yelp at the unexpected pain.

"Hen? You okay?" Clint's voice has gone hoarse again. He's been miserable since he woke up this morning; I was hoping the soup would help, and Lucky was being too underfoot and nervous for me to work in Clint's kitchen. Besides, that kitchen should probably be classified a biohazard zone. Really should look up the S.H.I.E.L.D. criteria for those zones sometime. But that's beside the point.

This is the third relapse in the month, and it's been just as bad as the previous, Fever, chills, a bone-jarring cough, and bouts of nausea that mean he has a hard time keeping anything down.

"Yeh, 'm fine," I say, trying to keep my own stomach from rebelling at the sharp pain. When I feel like I won't pass out, I move carefully to the door and open it, with my other hand.

Clint is standing outside, hair frazzled and cowlicked from sleep, eyes half-open and tired-looking, face pale, and wearing the same sweatpants and t-shirt he's had for the last three days. I frown.

"You look worse than before."

"So do you. What happened?" Only then do I realize what the kitchen, and I, must look like. I start to explain, then begin to laugh, only able to force out "the soup", "music", and "signing" between gasping laughs.

"What?" Clint looks genuinely confused, and a bit more awake.

I can't talk so I switch to signs. **I was listening to a song I used to like and then I decided to see if I could still sign along to it. And I had the spoon in my hand.**

**Oh, I see.** A small hint of a smile spreads across Clint's tired, pale face. **Want some help cleaning up?**

**Sure. And I'll show you the song, too, and maybe you'll get why I liked it so much.**

**Sounds good. Just don't show me how to sign it with a dishrag in your hand.**

**CLINT! The dishrag isn't going to be an accident if you keep this up.**

Fortunately, we make it through the kitchen cleaning without any injury or even water fights, probably mostly due to the fact that Clint's having a hard time just staying vertical.

"Ok, let's see the song," Clint says as he tosses the rag into the sink. I stand up, take a deep breath, and for a moment I'm the college student again, the girl who had no idea she'd end up here and now. I smile and begin.

**Hello, Darkness, my old friend…**


	2. Countdown (Post-Shadow Directive)

I lean on the edge of the roof, staring down at the constant stream of cars and people below. The beer Deke handed me is still cold, and I can feel drips of condensation running down my cheeks from where I've got it pressed against my aching forehead.

I don't normally drink, but tonight feels like the time for it. It's been three hours, ten minutes, and twelve seconds since Coulson cleared us from debriefs. It's been seven hours, forty-five minutes, and twenty seconds since we landed in New York. It's been thirteen hours, eight minutes, and fifty-six seconds since our Quinjet left Mexico City. And it's been fifteen hours, eight minutes, and twenty-nine seconds since we let thirty-eight children die.

Coulson kept reminding us it wasn't our fault. A series of unexpected complications put us in the wrong place, at the wrong time, to prevent the catastrophe this mission had become.

We'd gone in to stop a mercenary bomber from assassinating an official who was cracking down on the drug trade. All our intel pointed to a drug ring who'd hired Francis DeLaurier, our bomber, wanting to send a message by staging the bombing in the middle of Senator Marquez's public address on the drug problem.

No one had anticipated how much of a loose cannon the ring's second-in-command was. Apparently, he decided that killing Marquez publicly would simple make him a martyr, and had his own ideas on what would be most effective. So, within the twenty-four hours before the address, he killed his own brother, who had been head of the cartel, assumed command, and ordered DeLaurier to instead target the bus taking Marquez's son and the rest of his class on a field trip.

Clint and I were searching buildings near the public forum, counting a ticking clock as Marquez's speech drew to a close, when our contact, Diego SanDoval, radioed us to say that the bus had been hit. Apparently the bombing was staged to appear that the engine overheated and caught fire, spreading instantly to the gas tank and killing everyone on the bus. Two teachers, the driver, and all thirty-eight children. In the tick of a second. The seconds I can't stop counting.

I've seen worse. I've literally watched people die in front of me. Hell, I've _killed_ people. But somehow this is different. Even if I never saw it.

I pull out my phone and glance at the screen, where the playback of a video of the forum is frozen at one hour, twelve minutes, nineteen seconds. It's the moment when Senator Marquez was told by one of his aides what had happened. The moment you can see his face change from that of an enthusiastic orator who has just finished an influential speech to that of a grieving father trying desperately to process his loss.

I jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's Clint, come up behind me.

"Does it ever get any easier?" I ask without turning, knowing he'll have his hearing aids in because he was talking to the others eating up here.

"Nope. Every time a call comes down to that, each time you lose someone, you wonder what you could have done differently, if you could have saved them all. And that's a good thing. You learn, and you're better the next time."

"But people still die."

"We all die, Hen. Some of us just get there a lot faster." Clint takes a drink of his own beer and looks out across the roofs. "Every day we go out there, every life we do save-and every life we end-we make some kind of difference; we have a hand in making destiny. That's the only way I can make sense of it."

I stand there with him, watching the city, so full of life that it's hard to believe death exists. But I know it does. It's out there lurking now, waiting to attack the innocent, the weak, the unseen, the outcasts. And the rich, and the powerful. No one is safe.

Not even us, no matter how much we'd like to pretend we have an advantage. But as we're all too familiar with-especially Clint, _that moron; why does he think he can do stupid things and there won't be consequences? God, he's scared the hell out of me so many times getting hurt-_ we're no safer than anyone else. All the training in the world can't stop a bullet, can't counteract poison, can't halt a speeding car or stop a countdown of a bomb. And if you survive all that, you still have to deal with all the crap ordinary people do. Training can't cure cancer or reverse aging.

I guess in the end, Clint's pretty right. When my time comes, I'm going to meet it like I've faced every other challenge. And until that day comes, I'm going to do what I do best. Keep on changing fate, a little at a time.


	3. Shattered (Post-Avengers)

They won't let us leave the Helicarrier. The doctors say it's to keep an eye on our injuries, make sure we aren't going to suddenly get sick because of contact with alien viruses or radiation, blah, blah, blah. I know better.

Everyone's afraid. Of Clint. Of whether he's really himself again. Of whether Loki can take him back whenever he wants.

They're not exactly confident around me either. I've already proved how defensive I can be when we were getting out of the Quinjet back on the carrier. The sight of a battered and bleeding Hill there to meet us instead of Coulson almost made me break down crying, but I had to keep it together until we got to a room or I'd turn into an emotional Jell-O right there in the hangar.

That meant I wasn't paying a lot of attention to anything but putting one foot in front of the other, and when Hill turned aside to answer an urgent message from Fury I missed the agent who walked up to Clint and me. At least until he threw the first punch.

Clint staggered back into me, almost causing both of us to fall. In regular circumstances, he's barely have been shaken by the short beanpole of an agent, but after over twenty-four hours of being forced to work nonstop for Loki and then the battle that followed, he was drained. I heard the soft yelp as he collided with my shoulder and the glass shards still in his back and arms dug in painfully.

"You're nothing but a murderer. You ought to have died," our attacker hissed at Clint, and finally my brain caught up to the events, just as he lifted his hand again. My hands were moving even faster and the guy was on the ground before he knew what to do. Hill hurried back and escorted us out of the fast-forming crowd in the hangar.

The most distressing part is that Clint had never lifted a hand, or even his voice, to defend himself. The look I saw in his eyes when that agent was talking to him had been empty. Like he welcomed the punishment.

He's seemed detached like that ever since I told him about Coulson. I hadn't wanted to before the others left. We watched them walk out the hanging-by-a-single-hinge door of the Shawarma shop one by one; first Bruce, then Tony, Thor, and finally Steve, until it was me and Nat and Clint.

When I told him, it was like someone flicked a switch and shut off all the life inside him. He seemed to collapse in on himself, and it was all Nat and I could do to get him to the Quinjet when it came. And then Nat passed out on the floor from a deep wound she'd somehow managed to hide the whole time and became another mark against Clint in his own mental roster of people he'd failed.

She's stable now, and a nurse just came by to tell Clint that she's been asking for him. He never even responded. He's just sitting there on the edge of the cot in the little room we're sharing-because I threatened to stab anyone who tried to split us up-and staring at nothing.

We're probably lucky we aren't in a cell right now, but the Hulk destroyed the entire detention wing so we're being kept in what amounts to a regular crew cabin. Part of me doesn't even want to think about why this room is available.

I sit down next to Clint, no idea what to say. There's no way I can make this better. I notice that his hands are shaking, ever so slightly. I reach over to take his hand in mine and feel the rough dryness, the callouses from the countless hours of archery. His hands are so familiar to mine now that they seem to fit together without even trying.

The familiar touch seems to calm Clint a little, and he leans slightly against me, still careful to keep pressure off his bandaged shoulders. The doctors removed at least ten slivers of glass from where he'd ground them in falling through the window during the battle. He'd never even acted like there was anything wrong until Tony slapped him on the back in congratulation that we won and Clint almost yelled out loud from the pain. _Typical Clint._

Less typical is that he's refusing to remove his hearing aids. Usually, after a mission gone wrong, he'll toss them aside as soon as he can and escape into that silent world where no one can follow him. But this time he's choosing not to. And I don't understand.

 **Is there anything…** I begin to sign but I'm interrupted by Clint's hand leaving mine and grabbing my wrist in a tight hold.

"No. Talk. Please." His voice is hoarse and low, almost inaudible.

"Why?"

"So I can get his damn voice out of my head." Clint looks at me for the first time. "When it's quiet, all I hear is him."

"Okay." I don't really know what to say though, and so the silence that I now feel desperate to break falls again. "Can I-Is there-can I do anything?" I ask, fumbling like a high-school freshman in a debate class. Words have never been so hard. It's been so natural to sign with Clint I've almost forgotten that I can talk to him.

"No. Just keep talking."

So I do. I ramble on about stupid stuff like the first time I got in a car accident or the cat we used to have when I was a kid, or about the times Lucky got into trouble. Anything I can think of, no matter how trivial, to keep from letting the silence get to us.

Suddenly Clint stands up, jolting me slightly.

"Where are you going?" I ask, confused.

"Bathroom. Think that shawarma might have been a little bit off."

That's more the Clint I know, and I smile. Just a little. He disappears through the door and I lie back, wincing at the bruises and cuts hiding under my standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue sweatpants and shirt that I grabbed from sickbay to replace my destroyed uniform. I'm not looking forward to making some of the more intense signs with that big gash on my upper arm.

There's a sudden crash from inside the bathroom and I stand up, startled. "Clint, are you all right?"

There's no answer and I shove the door open, grateful he hasn't locked me out. Clint is standing in front of where the mirror used to be, hands covered in blood. The mirror-or what is left of it-is only a few shards of reddened glass left on the wall. The rest is a twisted mockery of tiny diamonds scattered over the floor.

"What happened?" I ask, looking at the mess.

"I-I can't, Hen." Clint stares down at the blood dripping from his hands onto the glittering shards of glass. "I can't look into my own eyes and not see him. I can't look at myself and not see a man who killed his own friends. Henley, what did I _DO_?" His voice rises almost to a wail.

"Not one thing, Clint. It wasn't you, you hear me?" I stand so he can't help but see me. "You couldn't stop it."

"But I almost killed you. And Nat. and Phil is dead because I led them all here. Told them how to get inside. Their blood's on my hands."

"Then it's on mine too. Because I was too scared to try to stop him like you did. I laid there and I let him take you and I never did a damn thing. Not one thing." Finally, all the guilt that I've been holding back is rushing out. I keep seeing Loki walk away with him, and myself, lying there half-awake, and pretending to be dead until Fury pulled me out from under the broken desk. _Why didn't I do something? Why didn't I let him take me too? Why?_

It doesn't matter that I was concussed, that I probably wasn't thinking straight, I blame myself for not doing _something._ It's not guilt anywhere on the same level as Clint is feeling, but I need him to know I feel it too. That he's not alone in wishing things had played out differently. "I failed you. And I'm sorry."

"You did what you had to do to stay alive. That's what you're trained to do. God, Hen, I don't even want to think of what he would have done to you if he'd taken you too…You did the right thing."

"But it doesn't feel like it." I know he's right, though. The thought of Loki having absolute control of me, of him making me do whatever he wants, must be sickening to him. It's not like I've never done anything a bit-crazy-for the sake of salvaging a mission, but it was always of my own free will. And Clint's killed before, but it's always been his call.

But still, part of me wishes it had been me instead. I'd take it all, any of it, to save Clint this kind of pain. Or if it had been both of us, at least I could honestly say that I understood. But I never really can. This will always be part of who he is now, just another thing that I can't quite reach. But we'll be okay.

I must have said the last part out loud, because Clint pulls back a little and looks at me, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Really? How can you even say that? How can it ever be 'okay' again?"

He begins to shake, crying silently. I do the only thing left to do. I wrap my arms around him, and hold him close, hoping that by holding him together I can keep him from shattering like the glass all around us.


	4. Field Medicine (Post-Shadow Directive)

"How many times do I have to watch you almost die today, Barton?"

 _It can never be easy, can it?_ No job ever goes according to the nice neat mission plan Coulson handed us two days ago, tucked in a neat manila folder. Now said plan is tucked into one of my pockets, torn, grimy, and currently a little bloody.

We're in nearly as sad shape as our instructions, just stumbling back into the crappy apartment we're using as a safe house for this op. I'm sporting what I can only imagine is going to be an impressive black eye, my right ankle is swollen to twice its size in my boot, and I've taken all the skin off my palms with a bad hard landing on concrete.

Clint is currently keeping pressure on a three-inch knife gash in his left thigh, his left shoulder is oddly twisted like it's dislocated, and he looks nearly as bruised as I feel. Probably some broken ribs to add to the mix, I've become sadly adept at identifying the breathing pattern that goes along with then.

Clint peels back the cloth around his wound, still bleeding steadily, and frowns. "Damn, I think they nicked something importantish."

"Clint?! Just how bad do you mean by 'importantish'?"

"Like this needs to be cauterized right away, and you're gonna have to do it."

"Why me? I have no experience in this kind of thing!" I start seriously panicking, no way can I handle this kind of field medicine.

"In case you didn't notice, my left arm is kinda useless and I can't do it with my other hand, 'cause I'm already starting to get a tremor from the blood loss and shock _." Oh, yeah. I've nearly forgotten he's left-hand dominant. Okay, good reasons. Doesn't mean I want to do it._

"Hen, it's not that hard. Just take one of your combat knives and heat it over one of those stove burners until it's hot enough to sear off the wound. You've got steady hands for your work, now's a good time to use that skill." Clint removes his quiver and places the strap of it in his mouth. "Wouldn't want the neighbors to get curious about what we're up to in here if they hear someone start yellin'," he mumbles around the strap.

 _Leave it to Clint to turn a situation like this into an off-color joke._ I chuckled forcedly, then draw out one of my knives and study the blade far too intently.

"I-I don't think I can do this." I look down at the knife in my shaking hands. "What if I screw up?"

Clint pulls the strap of his quiver back from between his teeth. "Henley, you have to do it, or I'm gonna bleed out in the middle of the kitchen floor."

"Why can't we go to a hospital?"

"I-I don't like hospitals. Or doctors. Don't trust 'em. Only person I let near me with a needle or a knife is Coulson. But he's not here right now, so I need you." Clint rests his hand on mine, trying to give me some comfort and confidence even though he must be in some pretty considerable pain. "You can do this."

I take a deep breath and walk over to hold the knife in the stove's flame. After what seems to be a ridiculously long time, the metal turns red, and I draw it back. "No, a little more, or it'll cool off before you get it on my arm," Clint mutters, shifting uncomfortably. The wait is stressing him out as much or more than it is me. I obediently put the knife back in the flame.

Finally, the blade is glowing again, strongly and almost white, and I grit my teeth and press the knife to Clint's wound.

I've seen people do this in the movies, but they don't tell you how hard it is to hold a flat piece of hot metal to a limb when all the muscles are jumping and trying to shrink away from the pain. They don't tell you that you have to repeat the process at least three times because you just can't stand to hold it there as long as it needs to be. They don't capture the heart-wringing agony of hearing your best friend hold back screams of pain, and knowing you're the one causing all that. And they certainly don't warn you about the smell. It's like someone is burning steak and hair clippings in the same pan. _The last thing we need is for you to throw up right now,_ I remind myself viciously.

Finally, it was over. Clint and I are both panting, sweating, and white-faced. I drop the knife from my hand, which is numb and shaking cripplingly, and slide down the counter to sit on the floor, gasping and trying not to lose my dinner. Clint joins me on the floor a moment later.

"Well, that wasn't so bad, now was it?" His joking tone is forced, hiding the strain and shock that are setting in. I lean back and close my eyes- _just for a minute-_ and the next thing I know I'm waking up with my head on Clint's shoulder, back aching and an imprint of the cupboard handle in the middle of my shoulder, and faint greyish sun seeping through the smog outside.

I stand up slowly and the movement jostles Clint awake. He struggles to stand and I give him a hand to help, then realize that my hands are still covered in soot and blood. It's gross, but Clint doesn't seem to care. He limps to his feet and we both take stock of the situation. Battered and bruised and probably not field-ready, check. Planning on calling for an extraction, no way in hell.

"Ready to give it another go, McBride?" Clint's smile is a little too wide, a little too forced, but it's there. I answer with one of my own.

"Yeah, let's go stop an art thief."


	5. Chicken Little (mid-Shadow Directive)

**_He said it was going to be fun. That it's the best kind of high to jump off something without a harness, just trusting yourself and your training and not totally sure you'll make it. He lied._ **

**Come on! You'd be dead if we were in a real situation.**

Clint is currently perched on an impossibly narrow ledge of a building in the simulation room that's almost ten feet away from me. For him, that's not even that long of a jump; he went over almost three minutes ago with as much ease as if he was walking.

**Stop telling me that! I know, okay!**

I'm so fed up with that same reason, probably because I know he's a hundred percent right. I'm out of breath-still-even though I've been gauging that jump in my mind from a standstill for what seems like forever.

**You'll never make it with a standing start. Back up and take a run at it. We're only five feet off the ground anyway.**

**The way they make this floor looks like it's twenty-five stories.**

I have no idea how they painted that, or if it's some kind of _Star Trek_ level holographic projection, but I could swear I'm standing on one of the skyscrapers I used to pass all the time back home. I can even feel wind in my hair thanks to a pair of fans that move throughout the room on a ceiling track to simulate conditions for sniper training.

**It's all in your head, just push through it.**

**Easy for you to say. You have no sense of safety.**

**And you're just a chicken.**

The second Clint's hands form that sign I feel a bubbling anger in my stomach. That's what the kids in school used to call me, because my odd name could be shortened to "Hen". It got unbearable.

I channel that old resentment, back off, and then race toward the edge of the "roof". I'm going to have to vault myself onto a parapet that rises about a foot from the flat roof, and then use that to give myself an extra boost and launch myself to the other side. At least, that's what it looked like Clint did, he was moving too fast for me to be sure.

For one perfect moment, I can see myself making it. I imagine myself in one of those old spy movies I used to love, the James Bond series or _Mission Impossible._ I feel like I'm watching from outside my body when I spring onto the ledge in what I think looks like a pretty sexy, graceful move. And then I hit the wall.

I'm hanging onto the ledge by my fingertips, wondering how I had the presence of mind to grab on when I knew I wouldn't make it. Then Clint's hands grip my upper arms and he's dragging me forcefully onto the roof. _Good Lord, I forgot how strong he is. He's lifting me like I'm paper._

I'm lying on the tar-paper roof, panting and trying to breathe again after smacking chest-first into a solid wall, with Clint leaning over me and laughing.

"I never seen anything so funny in my life. You had this real serious look on your face but you were flailing around like a discombobulated frog during the whole jump. And the look on your face when you realized you weren't gonna make it-it was better than those cat fail YouTube videos."

I may not be able to breathe, but I somehow manage to snark back. "You watch those things?"

"Cats are so dumb. Always reminds me why I prefer dogs."

I'm sure he thinks he's successfully distracted me from his earlier comment that made me so mad. But I am not going to let it go that fast. I brush away the hand he offers me and stagger to my feet under my own power. Granted, I look as wobbly as a bar stool with a missing leg, but I DO NOT need his help.

"If you ever call me Chicken again I swear I will strangle you with your own bowstring." I'm trying to look angry but I guess it looks the same as my ridiculous determined face because Clint smirks.

"Ok, fine, _Chick._ "

"Clint! That is WORSE! Just stop it!" I'm probably turning redder than a tomato, but at this point who cares?

"Okay, how 'bout 'Mother Hen'?"

 **NO!** I'm moving before I know it and my leg sweeps out and trips him. It would be fine if he hadn't been standing right next to the edge. Next thing I know he's on his back on that weird floor, and now I'm the one laughing and jumping down to land in a semi-graceful crouch- _although really, after what he just said, do I really just look like an idiot when I try to be badass?-_ and give him a hand up.

**If you ever call me one of those names again, I will do the same thing and it may not be in a simulation room.**

**Ok, point taken. I'll only call you names in safe places.**

_What are you supposed to say to that?_ I decide it's better to say nothing at all. I know he's found something to antagonize me and he's going to remember it for some time when I'm least expecting it. But I really don't care. It's the kind of thing friends do-drive each other crazy but not really mean it. We might be at each other's throat but we'll always have each other's back.

**Let's hit the showers.**

I'm more than ready to agree to that suggestion. We walk off together, Clint limping slightly where he must have landed on his hip, me limping real bad where my landing smacked my foot. I feel a smile creeping across my lips. Maybe, impossibly, we might be becoming friends. _Heaven Forbid._


	6. Mistletoe and Arrows (Post- Shadow Directive)

**That tree is going to fall over, you know.**

**No, it's not. I have put this tree up for three years. I know what I'm doing.**

**Clint, I know what I'm talking about and…**

There comes a point when even if you are so into signing that you forget to speak, some noises are inevitable. Like the small scream when a very top-heavy tree comes crashing to the floor with a semi-panicking archer clinging to some of the branches. Lucky and I both dodge to get out of the way and Lucky barks madly at the sound of shattering glass and Clint's muffled curses from under the branches. When the stepladder decides to follow the tree, I can't help but bend over and start laughing.

**I told you so!**

**Stop gloating and help me get out of this.** Clint is currently on the floor half-smothered by the tree, with the light string tangling him up.

 **I'm having too much fun watching this.** I suddenly have a flash of inspiration and pull out my phone and start filming Clint's struggles. **Nat and Kate are gonna love this. Some super-spy, get taken out by a Christmas tree. And not even a real one at that!**

 **Hen, stop that!** I'm laughing and my hands are shaking filming, and that's probably why I don't notice an incoming jingle bell ornament until it beans me in the forehead. Apparently Clint's good aim extends to throwing too.

I finally give in and help him untangle himself from the lights and tinsel, and then work at standing the tree upright again, trying not to think about how much glass is crunching under my feet. When Lucky tried to nose in and help, though, I shoo him back so he doesn't damage his paws. Dog's as careless as his owner, I swear.

**Let me go get the vacuum and I'll take care of this, OK?**

When I've finished the cleanup Clint has the tree back up and mostly decorated, since there is now an appreciably smaller amount of decorations to put up. We stand back against the wall to survey our work.

 **Nice.** Clint high-fives me and I look around at the apartment. The admittedly shabby place looks surprisingly good. Besides the tree, there's a wreath on the door, hanging from an arrow instead of a nail, garland draped around the stair rails to the second level, and lights hung around the windows. I can hear Aimee blasting Christmas music with her stereo on full even here on the top floor. She and her roommate Lou moved back in a few weeks ago, and the spunky girl has quickly become a person I would consider a good friend.

I have to admit, this is the most really Christmas-y feeling place I've been in since I lived at home. Decorating on my own just never felt the same. Christmas is just not the kind of holiday you want to spend alone.

Apparently Clint feels the same way. **Want to hang out here this evening? I can make us some hot chocolate and we can watch Christmas specials on TV or something.**

**Sure!**

I set to making hot chocolate in the kitchen ( _because Clint could literally burn water while boiling it and the only thing I trust him to make is coffee_ ) while Clint channel surfs for a good movie.

A cartoon flicks on, and I'm half-listening until Clint mutters "Oh hell no," and changes the channel.

**What was that about?**

**I'm never watching** _ **Winter Friends**_ **again. One time with Simone's kids was enough. I'm scarred for life.** I have to laugh when Clint makes the funny little sign that looks like "head-scarred" and means mentally scarring. Heaven knows I've used that one enough when I'm ranting to myself about some of my past missions with Clint.

I'll never unsee the time when we had to practically waterboard a guy to find three kidnapped daughters of an undercover agent with a hit on his name, or all the kills I've seen Clint make without batting an eye. Or the feel of the knife in my hand when I'm using it to hurt another human being.

And I can't forget the taste of swallowed-down nausea in my throat as I try to keep Clint from bleeding out in a warehouse waiting for evac, or the burn of a bullet slamming into my thigh, or my choking tears in a hotel bathroom when we didn't get to our objective in time and a junior agent was executed by a terrorist cell.

But I can also never forget the way Clint's lips feels soft on mine when we steal a kiss in the hotel room before we set off on a mission. Or the nights when we drink together to forget the pain and then get slap-happy and may or may not dare each other to do stupid things. Certainly will never unsee the time Clint was trying to catch a rogue female operative whose main weapon was her seduction and by the time I got out of insane Beijing traffic while following them, he met me at the door of her hotel room wearing only a towel and a sheepish smile.

And just yesterday, when we were out in town shopping for new Christmas lights because Clint's had such a frayed cord I thought they'd burn down the apartment, and I was gaping at everything because even though I've had city Christmases I've never had one in _New York City!_ and Clint handed money to every Salvation Army bell ringer we saw and three homeless kids. And then his smile when I told him that I'd rather he give them the money he'd have used to buy me a gift, and us both giving our gift money to an older woman with two grimy little kids. And when I asked why, Clint just smiling sadly and telling me he knows what it's like to have nothing and nobody at Christmas and he wouldn't want that for anyone else.

Thinking about that one makes me smile too, and that's right when the milk decides to boil over the edge of the saucepan and send up a cloud of stinky smoke.

 **Dang it!** I move the pan off the stove and wave a dishtowel, trying to disperse the smoke before I set off a detector and we have a real disaster.

 **What did you do?** Clint asks with a puzzled look.

**Milk boiled over. I wasn't paying attention.**

**Well, never cry over burned milk.** Clint grins at me as I join him on the couch with two mugs of steaming chocolate, stirring mine with a peppermint candy cane.

**You like** _**White Christmas** _ **?**

**Yes! I used to watch it with my family every Christmas Eve!** I snuggle into Clint's side and he puts an arm around my shoulder as we settle into the couch. I glance sideways just long enough to see that the first snowflakes are drifting lazily past the window. _I've always wanted to spend Christmas in New York, and I can't think of someone I'd rather spend it with._


	7. Do You See the People Sign? (Post-Shadow Directive)

It started in Paris, rather appropriately. We were on a weeklong op, staking out a place in shifts with two other agents. The times we weren't working we spent exploring the city.

I can say with complete certainty that there is nothing like touring a city with a trained spy who has traveled the world as an agent. You see a lot of things that no normal tour guide will ever show you.

Secret entrances to some of the most heavily guarded buildings in the world (no, I can't tell you what they are or where they are, otherwise I'd have to kill you), shady-looking bars where people meet, buy each other drinks, and surreptitiously exchange suitcases or flashdrives before disappearing into the night, incredible views of the city at night from rooftops, secret hideouts used by resistance fighters in World War II that are still safe houses for agents today.

On our second to last day we were crossing a street when I suddenly stopped and stood still in the middle of it, staring around me.

**Hen, come on, you're gonna get hit by a car.**

**Clint, this is the spot.**

**What does that mean? Did someone tell you you're gonna die here? 'Cause those circus fortunetellers are a load of bull, trust me, I know how they do it. But it's gonna be a self-fulfilling prophecy if you don't get out of the road.**

**No, this isn't someplace I was told I was going to die. But it's someplace that reminds me of death, in a weird way. This is the street Victor Hugo wrote about in Les Miserables. The barricade street. I never thought I'd actually see it.**

**You stopped because of a book?**

**It was my absolute favorite book in college. Don't judge.**

Clint doesn't seem to appreciate my obsession, but he does wait for me while I stand there in awe of the fact that I'm _here._ Where I used to wish I was, every time I read that book. Every time I wanted to march off to war with those enthusiastic boys who dreamed of changing the world. Even if I knew how it was going to end.

I guess I'm a sucker for long shots, last chances, and lost causes, because isn't that what I'm sort of doing now? Going off to fight for what I believe in and knowing that odds are for field agents a short and painful life.

I finally realize that my life will be very short if I don't heed Clint's advice and get out of the road fast, and so I follow him onto the sidewalk. He doesn't say another thing until we stop at a café a few blocks away. Of course we have to try the coffee in every country we visit. Clint swears Italian brews are the best, but I've discovered that I love the fancy kinds you can get in France. I'm usually not once for any additives to my coffee; black, hot, and strong enough to keep we awake are typically my criteria, but getting a really good sweet coffee here is nothing like the sludge espresso machines turn out back home.

**So you found the place from a book, huh?**

**You have seriously have so little knowledge about Les Mis? I thought that was a physical impossibility in New York today. That story is really well-known now, with the musical and all.**

**Nope. It's not like we went around reading massive novels in the circus. And I'm not really into going to musical theatre, you know.**

It seems like such a shame. We live in New York, so close to Broadway, and yet for Clint, plays and musicals are such a difficult thing to enjoy. I'd always dreamed of hearing Les Mis performed, but never lived where I could see it. And now, I'd hate to go without Clint. I want him to understand why I love this story so much, and I just cannot explain it in person.

**I understand that.**

**So you read the book in college?**

**Yes. And then became obsessed with it. I may have had a rather amusing obsession with some of the characters, too.** I grin, remembering conversations with my very much annoyed roommate. **Enjolras and Marius were my favorites. Enjolras was awesome and kind of obsessive and passionate, and then Marius was socially awkward and always saying the wrong thing and reminded me of me. But really, I wanted to be friends with all the rebels, they were like this massive dysfunctional family and it seemed like so much fun. Kind of like the apartment building folks, I guess.**

**How so?**

I'm kind of shocked Clint is asking me to tell him more about a book. That's incredibly unlike him; usually anything pertaining to literature makes him change the subject, which has always been a tough point because I _love_ to read and then talk about what I've read. We spend at least an hour there, me trying to explain the extremely complicated plot and somehow convey to Clint my extreme love for all these unique and amazing characters.

When we leave, we take up our spotter posts again, and there's no more conversation about the topic. I've nearly forgotten about it altogether when we fly home, even though I went back to the spot and found several others from the book with the help of Google and took pictures.

That's why I'm incredibly shocked when, several weeks later, Clint shows up at my door in his good suit and a tie, looking way too put together for a typical Sunday night.

 **Hey Hen, want to go out tonight?** I can tell he's got some surprise up his sleeve, with that cat-ate-the-canary grin.

**I'd love to. But I guess I should change.**

I swap my oversize sweater and jeans for a long navy-blue dress and black shoes with a bit of a heel. I don't do much to my hair, but it's actually looking presentable today, for a change. We take Clint's car to the theatre district, and stop outside a small theater that has seen better days, but has a small crowd outside.

I'm rather shocked to see most of the people waiting signing at each other.

**Clint, what is going on?**

**A Deaf theatre company is in town touring. I found out and thought you might enjoy it.**

I look up at the board advertising the show, and then stare at him wide-eyed. It's Les Mis.

**How…how did you find this?**

**Actually, it was Nat. I was telling her about you loving that show, but that I can't follow musicals, and she suggested looking for this. It was just dumb luck they were here this year.**

**Oh my god, I cannot believe it. This is the best thing anyone has ever done for me, no lie!**

The theater is packed, but Clint has managed to get us really good seats, and I'm literally shaking with anticipation by the time the show begins. I may never have seen the show before, but I had the whole soundtrack on my iPod and I used to listen to it when I ran.

The show is breathtaking. Without a word, I'm still mesmerized, and I can hear the music in my mind as I watch.

But the full power of the show really hits me when "Do You Hear The People Sing" begins. There is something that is just so _right_ about seeing all these people using their own "voices", something amazing about seeing that song. The real, raw emotion that comes from a people who literally were not heard. People who had been squashed and seen as less because the could not hear. People who were finally finding their voices and standing up. The song suddenly transcends 1832 France. It is a song for everyone, every people who have ever been oppressed, misunderstood, and ignored.

I sit there with tears streaming down my face, knowing that even though many of the seemingly most emotional parts of the story are yet to come, this is the single most vivid memory I will carry away from tonight. I have seen the people sign. And it is beautiful.


End file.
